


A Drunkard's Dream

by sara_merry99



Category: The Magnificent Seven (TV)
Genre: Epilogue, Episode Related, Gen
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-04-03
Updated: 2016-04-03
Packaged: 2018-05-31 01:42:20
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,312
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/6450346
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/sara_merry99/pseuds/sara_merry99
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Chris gets drunk, alone. Sort of. Lots of angst and alcohol. Epilogue to Nemesis.</p>
            </blockquote>





	A Drunkard's Dream

**Author's Note:**

> Unbetaed, though sassyinkpen took a little look at it to make sure it doesn't totally suck. Thanks hon!! A one evening quickie. 
> 
> Can be read as pre-slash, if you like, but needn't be.

# A Drunkard's Dream

Chris took another drink, hoping the flavor of whiskey would take away the smell of smoke and burned wood. The horrible taste of it that had been stuck in his mouth for years now. It didn't, just like it hadn't for all the drinks he'd had before.

He'd lost track of how much he'd drunk, though he'd gone through several shots before buying his first bottle earlier in the evening. There'd been another one after that, he knew, bought to stop the images of burned skin and charred bone. The one in front of him could be the second, or the third, possibly. He wasn't sure.

But none of them had worked to chase away the memories, the pain. He took another drink straight from the bottle, pouring seemed like too much effort at this point. It wasn't like he was sharing his liquor, anyway.

In the dim light, the bar was the color of her hair, shining brown with honey and red highlights and he traced the grain with his fingertips. He laid his cheek down upon it, imagining that the hard wood was soft and warm. Imagining her hands stroking his back.

Aware of movement near him, Chris reached out just in time to stop the bartender from taking his bottle away. He raised his head and snarled at the man.

His vision was too blurred to make out details, but he saw him back away hands raised. Good. Keep him back. That was good. Scared people were never kind. He'd had enough of sympathetic words and kindly gestures for a lifetime.

"We're so sorry about your family, Mr. Larabee." "I know how you feel." "I lost someone too." A chorus of voices that had ultimately driven him away from Eagle Bend in a fury, Buck riding hard to keep up with him.

He didn't want kindness. He just wanted to be left alone with his grief.

He drank the rest of the bottle, which was emptier than he thought it should be. He scowled at where he'd last seen the bartender, but the man was gone and Chris was left glaring at empty air.

He picked up another bottle from the counter and rose to his feet. As he walked out of the saloon, he was vaguely aware of a squawk of protest from the bartender, back from wherever he'd disappeared to, then a hushed voice. He didn't pay much attention, most of his thought going to walking straight despite the unevenness of the floor under his feet.

Outside, he took a deep drink from his new bottle then stumbled down the steps, tripped over a watering trough and fell into a grey mist that didn't quite keep him from feeling the jolt as his body hit the ground.

He could hear footsteps along the boardwalk, voices. Heard his name, he thought. Mocking laughter. Felt rough hands on his arm, fingers trying to dig into his pockets. He tried to fight them away, but he was clumsy, uncoordinated. Reached for his pistol but the grip slipped through his fingers like water. The grey mist was tying up his hands and pulling him deeper.

Over his head, he heard a noise he knew, the cocking of a rifle. The hands pulled away from him. Voices, one low, familiar and safe, "Get off him. Now." The others higher, scared, "Si, senor. Siento." "I didn't mean no harm." A patter of footsteps.

He tried to push to his hands and knees, his stomach suddenly roiling and tossing. Hands again, but helping him this time, gentle. The safe voice, saying, "Lord God, cowboy, you are a mess, ain't you?"

Competent safe hands holding his shoulders, supporting him while he puked up whiskey and pain and the haunting smell of his wife's burned flesh. Puked until he there was nothing left in him but emptiness.

He slipped away for a while after that, only vaguely aware of being moved, sat on a step, water in his mouth, swallowing.

Then darkness.

***

A bright glare woke him the next morning. Sunlight. He looked around the room. Room?

He was in an unfamiliar bed, in an unfamiliar hotel room. Purgatorio. That was right.

He looked around again. He was sleeping in his union suit, and his clothes were thrown over a chair. His gunbelt hung on a peg at the head of the bed.

He sat up, and propped his head in his hands, sorry for the movement. The wash basin was empty on the floor next to the bed. Had he thought to put it there in case he...

His stomach churned. Oh, yeah, he remembered throwing up.

He looked at the basin again. Empty.

Had he put it there? Didn't seem like he remembered doing that.

He pulled himself to his feet and pulled on his pants. His money was still in his pocket...but hadn't he been robbed? He was sure he remembered hands scrabbling in his pockets. Didn't he?

His shirt reeked of whiskey and smoke and other smells that made his stomach clench again. He shoved it into the depths of his saddlebag and pulled out a fresh one. He wished for a minute that he had a clean union suit with him, one that didn't smell of sweat and alcohol, but he'd be back in Four Corners by the end of the day.

He didn't remember the night before, and that was the sign that it was time to head back. Seemed easier this time, maybe, but he didn't dwell on that, just packed his gear.

When he left his room he almost tripped over the chair sitting outside his door in the hallway. Was it there when he arrived? He didn't think so.

***

He rode into Four Corners just before sunset. He'd felt better and better as the day went on, so by the time he rode in he no longer felt sick, just bone weary and with a headache like a cattle stampede.

He rode Pony to the livery and left him in care of the stable boy, then walked to the saloon.

He thought of having a whiskey, wanted one desperately, but he knew it was a bad idea and ordered coffee instead.

Over in a corner Buck, Ezra, Vin and JD were playing poker. Or at least Buck, Ezra and JD were. Vin held a hand of cards, but his chin was on his chest and play continued around him without him noticing.

Chris walked over and pointed at him with a raised eyebrow.

Buck smiled and said, "He's been playing that same hand for the past half hour. Every so often he'll wake up, bet a little, and then fall back to sleep." He tossed a coin onto the pot. "Apparently our friend here had a busy couple of nights. He rode in his morning looking like he hadn't got a lick of sleep in days." He chuckled, and winked at Chris, "I've been asking him to share her name with me, but he's being cagy. Just says he was with a friend. Guess he don't want me movin' in. Can't handle the competition." He grinned.

Chris looked over at Vin and felt a hint of memory, grey and vague, of hands supporting him while he puked and someone calling him cowboy. Cowboy? In Purgatorio? That couldn't be right, could it?

At the sound of another coin landing in the pot, Vin snapped awake, eyes instantly focused and ready. He looked at his cards, threw in a coin, then looked across the table at Chris. He smiled, just a little, and said, "Hey, you're back." He played out the hand, then stood, saying, "Time for me to turn in. You boys enjoy yourselves."

As he walked past he caught Chris's eye and said, very softly, "Glad you made it home okay, cowboy."

*** End ***


End file.
